


Christmas Wishes

by daughterofdurinanddestiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Comfort/Angst, Divorce, Divorced Lestrade, Drama & Romance, Drunk Sherlock, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Johnlock Fluff, Light Angst, Love, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Requited Love, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Silver Fox Lestrade, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofdurinanddestiel/pseuds/daughterofdurinanddestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes are both pining after unrequited loves on Christmas Eve. Will the brothers get their Christmas wishes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's Christmas Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Eve, everyone! Here is a little Johnlock and Mystrade angst/fluff to give you the warm fuzzies for the holiday.
> 
> Chapter one is Johnlock. Chapter two is Mystrade.
> 
> *TW: mentions of drug use, mentions/hints at alcoholism, divorce.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock Holmes jumped, surprised at being recognised at this tiny pub near Baker Street. It was Christmas Eve, and the place was half-full with other lonely folks like he was, having no one to spend the holiday with.

Usually this would not bother Sherlock whatsoever, but when he knew that John, his John, was at his flat with his happy, pregnant wife and not thinking of him at all, he became suddenly too lonely in his own flat at 221b. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts right then. He was afraid where they might lead him. He had been clean for years. He couldn’t bring himself to relapse now.

So he had decided to take a page out of Lestrade’s book and drink away his sorrows. Unfortunately, their alcohol here was subpar at best, and the noise level was sufficient enough to block out all thought, but also raucous enough to give him a headache when mixed with this awful liquor he’d been drinking.

He had wanted to drown his sorrows and feel less alone. He had never felt more alone in his life. He had just been wishing that John were there when he heard his name being called. He squeezed his eyes shut, telling himself that the alcohol mixed with his wishful thinking was what made the voice sound so similar to his blogger’s.

“Sherlock!” Nope. It was louder, closer, and most definitely the voice of Captain John H. Watson.

Sherlock turned around and beheld his best friend and only love. He was wearing a horrid Christmas jumper under his coat, snow was in his hair and he looked flushed, as if he had been yelling recently.

“John? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home with Mary?” he asked. He might be buzzed, but his deduction skills were not hindered. John had recently been upset, probably angry, and was not at home with his wife on Christmas Eve. Something was wrong.

“I’ve been all over looking for you. Didn’t you hear your mobile?” John asked, avoiding Sherlock’s questions.

Sherlock reached into his pocket to see he had six unread texts from John. He opened them.

**“Are you home?”**

**“I’m coming over.”**

**“Sherlock? Are you there?”**

**“I swear, Sherlock, if you’re high I will kill you for real this time!”**

**“I really need you. I’m almost home. Please tell me you’re there.”**

**“You’re not home, Sherlock. Where are you? I really need you.”**

He looked up into John’s face and saw that there were tears gathering in the corners of the older man’s eyes. Sherlock quickly paid his tab and said, “Let’s go. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear the mobile in this noisy hellhole.”

Without thinking about it, he put his arm around John’s shoulders and they walked quickly around the corner back to 221b. Sherlock had time to wonder two things on the way: why had John called this place home when he had not lived there for over a year, and why did John say he “needed” Sherlock? What was wrong? Sherlock hoped it wasn’t the baby. He had actually been excited about being an honourary uncle.

As soon as he locked the door to their--his--flat, John threw his coat violently onto the floor (a move very unlike tidy John) and he then threw himself equally violently into his old chair.

“John? You know that I am not good in situations such as these,” Sherlock reminded him, kneeling before the chair. “Can you speak plainly about what has happened? Why did you say you needed me? Why are you not with Mary tonight?”

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his red and puffy and his cheeks still pink. “I said I needed you for the same reason I am not with Mary tonight. I’ve left her.”

Of all the things Sherlock could have deduced, this was one he never would have guessed in a million years.

“Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather I leave you be?” he asked cautiously, hoping that he had said the right thing. He could not say he was sorry to hear about the split. It was poorly timed during what was supposed to be the “happiest time of the year”, and that was unfortunate, but the event itself was not unfortunate. At least, not for Sherlock, who had been heartsick over losing the man he had loved in secret for years.

“Don’t you want to try and deduce why I left her?” John asked, seeming to be oddly calm about what most people would catalogue as an upsetting event.

“John, I--I cannot deduce that, because my own...emotions...would get in the way of my making an accurate deduction. Please, tell me. I am your friend, and I am here for you.” Sherlock put his hand on John’s knee. It was meant as a comforting gesture, but he realised his hand was shaking. He was buzzed, it was Christmas, John was here. He was sorry John was unhappy, but he was so overly  _ emotional _ over this whole thing. It was most unlike him. Then again, he had done some very un-Sherlock like things since meeting the good doctor.

John then said the one thing that made Sherlock’s heart shatter into a million pieces: “I don’t want you to be my friend, damn you!”

Sherlock visibly recoiled. What? That made absolutely no sense whatsoever. “John?” He could not keep his voice from shaking. “Why? What did I do?”

John looked back up at him, realisation dawning on him that Sherlock was hurt. “Oh. Oh! Sherlock, no! I didn’t mean I didn’t want to be your friend. That--that came out all wrong! You didn’t do anything, I promise.” John reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face with his hand. “You could never do anything wrong in my eyes. You have no verbal filter, you’re untidy, you have no idea how to deal with emotions, and you keep body parts in our kitchen, but none of that could ever make me dislike you. Hell, you pretended to be dead for two years and I didn’t stay mad!” John gave a small laugh.

“The problem is,” he continued, “that I am very dissatisfied with being only your friend. This is the time of the year to be with people who love you and whom you love. I don’t love Mary and I never did.”

“I could have told you that,” Sherlock interjected. “But I figured that that would be seen as rude, so I let you go on, as long as you were happy.”

John scoffed. “It figures. In any case, I left her tonight. On Monday I’m contacting a lawyer about a divorce. But that isn’t all, Sherlock. I know how hard emotions are for you. Sentiment is found on the losing side, blah blah blah. Here is a whole heaping pile of sentiment for you, whether you like it or not because I can’t take hiding how I feel any longer.

“I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I love you. I have always loved you. You childish, impudent, rude thing. You are everything I have ever wanted. I want to spend forever by your side. I want--I want you, Sherlock. I never wanted to say anything and destroy our friendship, but I can’t hold it in any longer.”

“John…” Sherlock found he could not manage more than that one word. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the words he had just heard. He wondered if he had infact imbibed too much and was hallucinating this.

“John...the last time I made a Christmas wish was when I was seven. I asked for a violin, because Mycroft had a piano and I wanted to play an instrument, too.” Sherlock saw John’s expression change to confusion, so he hurried on. “I never wanted anything after that. I never cared. Everything I ever wanted I could get myself, and usually that was drugs.

“This year was the first time I made a wish since then. Do you want to know what I wished for?” Sherlock paused and John nodded. “I wished for you. I wished that your wedding could have been a nightmare and that I’d wake up on Christmas morning and you’d be here, smiling and making tea. You’d kiss me before the Christmas tree you had put up in the night, and we’d cuddle with hot chocolate and...you’d tell me you loved me.

“I can’t help but think that this is just a dream, John.”

“What will make you believe that this is real?” John asked, his voice hushed. His hand was still on Sherlock’s face, and his thumb was caressing his cheekbone.

“When I dream, I always wake before you can kiss me,” Sherlock revealed. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had never felt this way before and it was exhilarating.

John slid out of the chair and went to his knees next to Sherlock on the floor. He took Sherlock’s head in his hands, tilting it downward and pressed soft lips to his in a chaste kiss.

It was a sweet kiss, but it did things to Sherlock that he could not control. He moaned deep in his throat and that moan was what seemed to undo John completely. One hand tugged on Sherlock’s curls as John used his lips to open Sherlock’s and slip his tongue between them.

Sherlock was barely cognizant of his own body as his arms wrapped around John’s waist and pulled him impossibly closer. They were a tangle of legs and tongues and somehow John wound up in Sherlock’s lap. Neither man could bear to break the kiss till Sherlock nearly ran out of breath.

He put his head back, eyes closed tightly, and then gasped when he felt John’s lips and teeth on his long neck; sucking, kissing, and biting. He groaned louder, and felt himself hardening in his pants. “John,” he said in a breathy voice he hardly recognised as his own.

“Yes?” John asked, and Sherlock could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t ever leave me again.”

“Never,” John vowed, his fingers undoing a few buttons on Sherlock’s dark purple shirt. “I will never leave you.” He pulled back and looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes. “I love you.”

“I have never loved anyone,” Sherlock admitted. “You turned my world upside down, John, and I never want it to be righted. I love you so much, I cannot fathom it myself.”

They just sat there for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing in each other’s very presence.

Sherlock broke the silence first. “John?”

“Hm?”

“I’d prefer my first time with you to be in the bedroom, not on the sitting room floor.”

John burst into giggles, much as he had that first night he’d lived with Sherlock after they’d run around London chasing after a criminal that wasn’t even there. He jumped up and, quicker than Sherlock could blink, swept the taller man into his arms, carrying him straight to his bedroom.

An hour later, breathless and happier than either of them had been in their entire lives, John brushed damp curls from Sherlock’s eyes and said, “Happy Christmas, love.”


	2. Mycroft's Christmas Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is alone on Christmas Eve until a sexy DI offers to come over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised Mystrade half of this story. Enjoy and Merry Christmas!

Mycroft Holmes believed that caring was a disadvantage. The only people he really cared about at all was Sherlock (not that he’d tell his brother that) and his mother. However, this Christmas he found himself lonely and thinking about one man in particular whom he had met after the whole Magnussen debacle.

A certain Detective Inspector with twinkling brown eyes and sexy silver hair.

He had started a weekly discourse with Gregory Lestrade back in January after they had put away Moriarty. The two were surprisingly compatible in a fire and ice sort of way, and they never missed a weekly get together either at Mycroft’s club or the copper pub that Lestrade frequented unless Mycroft was out of the country. Even then they would speak frequently on the phone.

Much like his baby brother, Mycroft had never had a friend before. Greg was the first person he had ever connected with in a personal way. Mycroft’s personal relationships before had been one night stands to satisfy his necessary natural urges. That was all.

He had never felt friendship, and he had never felt love. Not until he had one day looked at Gregory and something clicked in his mind that he loved him. It was not a slow burn thing, it hadn't been love at first sight: it was a sudden realisation that shocked Mycroft to the core.

Though Gregory was recently divorced from a woman, Mycroft had known he was bisexual, and they had talked about it at length, Gregory admitting that he had not been with a man since uni. Mycroft had wanted to lean in and whisper that he could re-break Greg in if he wanted, but he was much too shy to do that.

Now it was Christmas Eve, Mycroft was lonely, having drunk perhaps one too many scotches, and he realised that he wanted someone to cuddle with before the fireplace. He wanted Gregory to wrap his muscular arms around him and nuzzle his neck.

As he was daydreaming, his mobile buzzed. He opened it and smiled, seeing it was a text from Gregory.

**“Happy Christmas, Myc.”**

A second later, another text came through: **“What are you up to?”**

**“Nothing. I’m at my home. MH”**

_Buzz_. **“All alone on Christmas Eve? That’s not right. Want some company?”**

**“That would be quite nice. MH”**

_Buzz_. **“On my way. ;)”**

Mycroft felt a bit of panic. He dashed to the mirror and made sure he looked presentable before checking that he had refreshments and that the house looked tidy. (Of course it did: as Sherlock never failed to mention, he had terrible OCD about neatness.)

The doorbell rang and he practically dashed to answer it, acting very unlike himself indeed. His body betrayed his mind whenever the silver fox was around, and he hated it.

He opened the door to find his friend and unrequited love standing there with snow in his hair, making it sparkle more than usual, a six-pack of beer in one hand, and the sexiest grin Mycroft had ever seen on his face. It sent a bolt of heat straight through him.

“Happy Christmas,” Gregory said, taking his wet coat and boots off before dripping water onto Mycroft’s sparkling floors.

“Happy Christmas to you,” Mycroft replied. “You must be freezing. Come, I have a fire going in the parlour.”

He could have been imagining it, but he swore he felt Gregory’s eyes on his arse as he walked ahead of him. He put a bit more spring in his gait, wishing he had laid off on the Christmas sweets, but he was a sucker for sweet things.

He and Gregory sat in chairs before the fire, and he heard his companion sigh contentedly as the heat hit him.

“So, why aren’t you at home for Christmas?” Gregory asked him.

“Mummy and Father are on a cruise. My gift to them. And you know Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “Why are you alone?”

Gregory shrugged. “Wife took the kids to her parents’ in Newcastle. I wasn’t invited, of course. Had I known you’d be alone, I’d have dropped by sooner today.”

“It’s nice having company for the holidays. It’s late, but I have a dessert I baked here. Would you like some?” Mycroft offered.

“Sure, mate. Thanks.” Gregory smiled and Mycroft went to get the cinnamon loaf he’d made. He brought two plates and two glasses of scotch (it went well with cinnamon) on a tray. “This smells amazing,” Gregory commented. “Can I hire you to cook for me?”

Mycroft smirked. “Government official being the private chef for a lead DI on the side? Might be a bit much to balance.” He picked at his plate. “Sherlock says I eat too much of my own cooking.”

Gregory waved a negligent hand. “Please. You look great. He’s just pushing your buttons is all. Little brothers are supposed to do that. Trust me, I have no complaints when I look at you.”

Mycroft was barely able to contain a shocked little gasp. He knew Gregory didn’t mean it that way, but he couldn’t help the hope that rose for a split second in his heart.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Mycroft loved that about Gregory, that he could just be with him and feel so content. He wished every night could be like this, just being with the man he loved before going into bed beside him at night, waking every morning with him by his side.

“Do you ever get lonely in this big house all by yourself?” Gregory asked.

Usually, Mycroft would never answer such a personal question. With him, he did not have to pretend to be the Iceman anymore. “Yes. I was tonight before you text.”

Gregory smiled, firelight dancing in his dark eyes. He was so stunning. It wasn’t fair. “I’m glad I was here to bring you some Christmas joy.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Mycroft said quietly.

Gregory chuckled. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much,” Mycroft lied.

“What’s your ideal Christmas?” Gregory asked suddenly.

“What’s yours?” Mycroft countered.

“I asked first,” Gregory argued, but told him anyway. “Going to bed on Christmas Eve with the person I love wrapped in my arms, waking at dawn and having coffee before the tree, kissing, and listening to Christmas carols. Eating cookies and kissing the crumbs from his mouth. Making love before the fireplace as the snow fell outside.”

Mycroft did not miss the male pronoun used. He felt his breathing quicken and dared himself to hope that his errant Christmas wish could come true. That the sexy Lestrade could actually care for him as much as he cared for Lestrade.

“That’s...that’s a great way to spend the holiday,” Mycroft managed to say. “I...suppose mine would be quite similar to yours.”

Gregory smiled over at him. “Christmas is a time to be with those you love, don’t you agree?”

Mycroft almost said, “Then why are you here with me?” but he refrained. He nodded instead.

“Do you love anyone, Myc?” he pressed.

Mycroft took a breath. “Gregory, I think it might be better if I do not answer that.”

“All righty then,” the DI replied, standing up and stretching. Mycroft caught a flat, tanned stomach with a little hair leading beneath the waistband of Gregory’s pants and felt his own pants tighten. He wanted to lick down, follow that happy trail to the prize waiting at the end of it. “How about if I answer for you?” He strode over to where Mycroft sat, eyes sparkling and that alluring grin still on his stubbly face. He put his hands on the arms of Mycroft’s chair, leaning down so that they were only a few inches apart.

“You claim that caring is a disadvantage, but I don’t believe you. What I do believe is that you have absolutely no grasp whatsoever on emotion. And for all your cleverness, you can’t take a hint. I have been coming onto you since we met, and yet you have never touched me. However, I have seen you undress me with your eyes many times in the past year.

“Now, this is Christmas, and I did not forget you get you a gift. It’s right here, and if you want it, all you have to do is unwrap it.”

That was it for Mycroft’s shaky resolve. He leaned his head forward and pressed his thin lips to Gregory’s. Gregory did not waste any time in opening Mycroft’s lips and letting his tongue invade his mouth, sucking on Mycroft’s lip and tongue.

Mycroft felt Gregory move, and a knee pressed into his crotch, the shock causing him to drop his glass to the floor. He heard it shatter but did not care as he grabbed Gregory by the waist with one hand and threaded his other in the silver strands that were as soft to the touch as Mycroft had always imagined they’d be.

He moaned into the kiss and Gregory just kissed him harder, holding his face in his hands.

When they pulled back for breath, Mycroft said, “I don’t know when it happened, but I have been dreaming of this for some time.”

“As have I,” Gregory replied, smiling down at Mycroft. “I think I’ve loved you since I met you.”

“You...love me?” Mycroft asked, his brain trying to process what was happening.

Gregory laughed. “You are slow on the uptake, Myc!”

“I love you, too.” Mycroft pulled him in for another kiss. “Please, stay. We can cuddle, and eat cookies, and I’ll make love to you in every room of the house if you’d like. Just stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere but to your bedroom,” Gregory promised.

When Mycroft woke up the next morning with the hot, hard, and completely naked body of Gregory Lestrade cuddled around him, he smiled to himself. You didn’t have to be a child to have a Christmas wish come true.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this fic! As always, kudos and comments are appreciated. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday!


End file.
